


Ghosts

by Bookkbaby



Series: Until Only A Scar Remains [7]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Guilt, Hopeful Ending, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Panic Attacks, Past Rape/Non-con, Rape Recovery, Supportive Dean Winchester, Supportive Sam Winchester, Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-14
Updated: 2019-02-14
Packaged: 2019-10-27 21:27:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,390
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17774492
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bookkbaby/pseuds/Bookkbaby
Summary: The boys investigate a haunting, one that rips open still-healing mental scars and brings Cas face to face with one of his worst nightmares.April.'He knows this place. He'd know it anywhere, in sun or snow or... rain.'





	Ghosts

**Author's Note:**

> Part 7 of my series dealing with 9.03 as a sexual trauma for Cas. This part can probably be read as a stand alone, though I do recommend reading the other parts to this story.
> 
> I wanted to address April more hands-on this fic. I hope I've done them both justice.

He knows this place.

Cas stares at the innocuous looking apartment building, his heart already beginning to pound in his chest. He stares, unable to look away from the sun-dappled brick and wrought-iron fire escape.

He knows this place. He'd know it anywhere, in sun or snow or... rain.

He can hear it now, thunder rumbling in his ears and his red hooded sweater soaked, _so cold_ , belly _s_ _o empty_ , and-

There's a sharp knock on the car window and Cas startles and looks up. Dean stands on the other side of the door, dressed like an FBI agent and wearing a frown on his face.

"You coming?" Dean asks.

Cas wants to say 'no'.

But it is just a building. And he can handle the memories. He has a journal at the bunker filled with them.

"Yes," Cas says, opening the door. Dean steps aside to let him out and turns to face the building, squinting against the setting sun.

"Another freaking apartment building..." Dean grumbles. "These places all look the same. Makes me feel like I've been here before or something."

Cas thinks he should make a comment, either on the nature of memory or the building itself, but he can't. All his words are dried up in his throat.

Neither Dean nor Sam notice. They're already crossing the street. After a moment, Cas follows them, trying hard not to think about the sweat slicking his hair to his neck, running down his spine like raindrops.

He focuses on his breathing and tries to keep it steady as they enter the building he hasn't seen in over a year except in nightmares.

In the distance, he hears thunder roll.

* * *

The case had sounded straightforward when Sam had first presented it to them. A news article about a man thrown out a window by an unseen force had led them to a trail of minor incidents going back several months, all spelling out one thing; ghost.

It should have been a simple salt and burn. Cas should have known better. The legendary Winchester luck had struck again, even with him only being an honorary Winchester.

He'd never known the address. He'd known the city, but back then addresses hadn't been important.

He _hadn't known_.

He knows it now.

He follows after Sam and Dean as if in a dream, feeling out of control of his own body. His limbs are heavy yet weightless, every part of him stone being inexorably drawn forward step after step after step.

He watches as Dean and Sam introduce themselves to the landlady as FBI agents, and she's so charmed by their smiles and ease nobody seems to notice that Cas doesn't flash his badge.

"Well, I don't know why the FBI would investigate an accident like this, but I'm happy to show you around!" she says, one hand tucking some of her greying hair behind her ear.

"We're just trying to rule out any kind of foul play, ma'am," Sam says. The landlady waves her hand dismissively as she leads them to the stairwell. Dean and Sam follow her immediately. Cas hesitates.

Dean glances back at him, frowning in confusion, and Cas takes a deep breath. He follows.

"The police looked into it, but I'm telling you, it had to be an accident. David must have tripped out the window or something," the landlady says.

"Must have been quite a stumble to break the glass like that," Dean says. The landlady shrugs a shoulder apologetically.

"It's an old building. Drafty, creaking stairs... Why just this year, mice got into the wiring and I had to have the exterminator out." She narrows her eyes at them a moment. "Now, my building _is_  up to code and I had an inspector here not last month checking everything over, but he must have missed the window and I _will_  be having words with the company."

"Naturally," Sam says soothingly. "Was there anyone else in the room with Mr. Teller when he fell?"

"Just Mandy," the landlady says. "Amanda Green, his girlfriend. And she couldn't have pushed him, not that she would."

"Why not?" Dean asks. The landlady averts her eyes and leads them up the stairs.

"Well... they're a lovely couple, they really are, and it isn't any of my business or anything, but..."

"But?" Sam prompts. 

"You see, Mandy and David are a bit... shall we say 'alternative'?" the landlady says. "I found the poor dear still tied up, screaming that David had been thrown out the window."

Dean disguises a disbelieving but delighted chuckle as a cough.

"Are we talking like, full out 'Fifty Shades of Grey' kind of tied up, or...?" Dean asks. The landlady narrows her eyes suspiciously at him but Sam interjects.

"What my fellow agent _means_  is, is there any chance Miss Green could have tied herself up so she wouldn't be suspected of trying to push her boyfriend out the window?"

The landlady's face clears.

"Oh, definitely not," she says. "I called the ambulance for David right away and by the time they arrived, I was still trying to undo the knots. I ended up having to cut through the ropes."

They arrive at the third floor. The landlady opens the door into the brightly lit hallway and Cas feels his world shrink down to just himself and the door at the end of the hall.

He doesn't want to go. Still, he trails after Sam and Dean, his heart pounding in his ears and his palms sweating.

He can do this. He _can_  do this.

He repeats it like a mantra as they draw closer to the apartment.

To _her_  apartment.

"Security cameras catch anything?" Dean asks, motioning up to one placed discreetly in the corner, looking down the hall. The landlady shakes her head.

"Nothing, nobody leaving or entering the apartment. It was the first thing the officers checked," she says. "Cost me a small fortune, but I simply had to get them installed after the incident last year."

Cas's stomach goes cold.

"Last year?" Sam asks. The landlady nods, voice going hushed as though she doesn't want to speak of it.

"Home invasion, the police said, though it looked like nothing was taken from the apartment. Stabbed the poor girl living there to death, though." She shakes her head sadly. "Never had such trouble in all the years I've lived here, so it was quite a shock."

Sam and Dean exchange a look, one that says they think they've identified their possible spook. Dean glances back to see if Cas caught the same clue they did, but Cas just stares straight ahead at the door.

They're only a few feet away now.

He can do this.

"Mandy is staying with her mother until we get the window fixed, when she's not with David in the hospital, so I'll just go ahead and let you in," the landlady says, drawing a master key out of her pocket.

Cas watches her slide the key home without really seeing it, the sound reverberating in his ears like thunder. He shivers with the sense-memeory of being cold and wet, his stomach cramping with remembered hunger.

He can't do this.

He opens his mouth to tell Dean, to quietly beg off the hunt and retreat to the car, the motel, the bunker. Anywhere other than here, now, with the memory of _then_  so strong he can hear the rain on the window.

But's it's too late. The landlady pushes open the door and Cas is hit by a wave of memory so strong his knees nearly give out.

The apartment looks exactly the same as it did last time. He can see the couch where she'd dressed his wounds, the tiny kitchen she'd made him a peanut butter and jelly sandwich in, the dining room chairs identical to the one she tied him to...

He can taste cloyingly sweet fake fruit and a sticky, nutty flavor on his tongue. He can feel her hand on his shoulder as she gives him a predatory smile and leans in-

"Cas," Dean hisses in undertone, shaking his shoulder. Cas looks at him blankly, his breath coming in short, sharp pants as he takes in Dean's expression of wide-eyed fear.

Dean recognizes this place too. He _knows_  and Cas isn't sure if that makes this better or worse.

"Agents?" the landlady says, concerned, and Sam is looking around the small apartment with dawning comprehension.

"My colleague is ill," Dean says. "We'll come back-"

"No," Cas says. He swallows, tries to calm his breathing. He's only partially successful.

If he leaves now, he isn't coming back. He doesn't think he could make himself.

He can do this. He has to. Here. Now.

He isn't _weak_.

He's faced down archangels on his own, he's fought Lucifer and Micheal and all the denizens of Hell and Purgatory. He can face one ghost.

Even _this_  ghost.

"Cas, you don't have to do this," Dean says quietly, urgently. Cas sets his jaw and pulls his arm from Dean's grasp.

"Yes I do," Cas growls, even as his heart trembles and the bile rises in his throat. He forces himself to move forward, wishing he had something stronger than his customary trenchcoat to protect him. He stumbles into the apartment with less than his usual grace, limbs heavy and uncoordinated.

And then he's in. He's standing in the same place he was all those months ago, as terrified now as he had been trusting and relieved back then. He looks around, trying to ground himself in the here-and-now by picking out the tiny differences in the decorations.

More framed photos on the walls, most of a smiling young couple at various tourist attractions. A potted plant where before had been a vase. A red tablecloth instead of white.

The bedroom door is ajar and Cas finds his eyes inexorably drawn to it, gaze skimming over the striped sheets and lit candles-

He blinks and shakes his head, willing the images away. When he looks again, he sees that the bedside lamp is on and the duvet is royal purple.

"Agent."

Cas turns back to the door and sees Dean, Sam, and the landlady all staring at him with concern. The landlady has a touch of fear in her expression. Cas can imagine why. The so-called 'federal agent' just started panicking in front of her for what would seem to her like no reason at all.

"I'm fine," he says hoarsely. Dean's expression goes steely. He steps forward and makes as if to grab Cas's arm, but stops short when Cas tenses.

"No, you're _not_  fine," Dean says in a tone that brooks no argument. "Come on, let's go-"

The lights in the apartment flicker. Dean stops, looking around with wide eyes.

Cas can't move. He feels frozen in place, the air so cold it burns his lungs when he breathes it in. When he breathes out, he can see a mist form in front of his face. The landlady is looking around, confused, while Sam looks with naked horror on his face.

He knows as well as Dean and Cas do what's coming.

Or rather, _who_.

" _You._ "

Cas's heart turns to ice. Sweat drips down his spine and he turns, hands shaking.

April stands in the door to the bedroom, her face ghostly pale and twisted in rage.

For a moment, the room darkens and tilts, everyone but _her_  fading into nonexistence. Cas feels trapped, suspended in that moment and gasping for air, his skin crawling with remembered touch.

The moment shatters. April snarls and lunges forward, throwing him bodily against the far wall. The landlady screams. Dean shouts as Castiel's head strikes the plaster, leaving a sizeable dent. Cas collapses to his knees, head reeling and stomach heaving.

He has to get up, he thinks. He has to get up and fight, but he's _so cold_ -

April flickers from view and reappears seconds later looming over Cas. She's reaching for him and for a moment, Cas forgets when and where he is. Memories of that night superimpose themselves over the now and Cas flinches back, pressing himself against the wall as if to melt into it. He's shaking like a scared child but for the life of him can't seem to stop.

There's a hand on his neck and he can't tell if it's squeezing or caressing; he can't breathe. She leans in and he can't tell if she's smiling or snarling, can't tell if the room is bathed in the dying light of sunset or the glow of candles.

He can't, he _can't_ -

"Cas!"

There's the sharp report of a gun. April dissolves into smoke. The hand choking him vanishes and Cas sucks in air, wheezing and coughing as blessed oxygen fills his lungs. Dean's suddenly _there_ , hauling him up by the shoulder and shoving him towards the still-open door of the apartment. Cas can barely walk under his own power, stumbling over his toes as he walks past the now-hysterical landlady Sam is trying to soothe.

"-she's DEAD but she was just- and then she THREW HIM-" the landlady says, pointing at Cas repeatedly like Sam hadn't seen what happened.

"Ma'am, we'll explain but first we should get out of here," Sam says, steering her towards the hallway after Cas and Dean. Dean's at Cas's elbow, hovering but not touching. Cas distantly appreciates the distinction; he doesn't think he can handle touch right now, no matter how kindly meant.

He can still feel her phantom touch, not only on his bruised neck, but all down his body.

* * *

The drive back to the motel goes by in a blur. The sensations of touch have faded to an all-encompassing numb, oilslick feel across his skin. He supposes it's the shock.

Dean and Sam keep shooting him concerned glances in the rearview mirror, but Cas doesn't look up at them. The silence in the car is oppressive, heavy on his chest and sticking his tongue to the bottom of his mouth.

He almost doesn't notice when they park. He only realizes where they are when Dean opens the car door.

"Cas-" Dean starts, but Cas doesn't want to hear it.

"I need a shower," Cas says, keeping his eyes on the gravel of the parking lot as he gets out of the car. He doesn't want to see Dean's face, doesn't want to see the exasperation or the disgust or the pity.

He just needs hot water, soap, and a rag coarse enough to scrub the sensation of touch from his skin.

Dean's quiet for a moment before he finally responds.

"Okay," he says gently. "Sure, I get- I mean. Ok."

Sam's already at the motel room door, fumbling with his key. He gets the door open and steps aside for Dean and Cas to enter the dingy room. Cas makes a beeline for his duffle bag and just hefts the whole thing, intending to bring it into the bathroom with him.

"Cas, wait," Dean says, closing the motel door behind him. Cas looks up. Dean swallows. "We gotta talk about this. Decide what to do."

Cas doesn't want to talk about this. He doesn't even want to think about it, but that choice has already been taken from him. With the memories having been brought so strongly to the forefront of his mind, it'll be a miracle if he thinks of anything else tonight.

"I can, uh... figure out where she's buried," Sam says gently. "If she was buried. We can find the grave tomorrow night."

"Or we can get someone else. Another hunter," Dean says, still staring imploringly at Cas. "Point is, we don't have to go back."

Cas thinks he's supposed to say something here. He just doesn't know what. The words are all stuck in his throat.

He can see Dean's regret, his guilt at not recognizing the building immediately, at passing off the twinge of familiarity as a trick of the apartment's structure. Dean has a tendency to take the blame for any harm that befalls someone he loves; Cas is well aware of it, but he doesn't have the energy to reassure Dean right now. He can't tell Dean that everything is fine, because everything is not, though he knows it isn't Dean's fault at all.

"Your call, Cas," Dean says.

Does Cas want to see her burn?

He doesn't know.

Does he want to be the one to burn her?

He doesn't know that, either.

He shakes his head. It's all too much to decide right now.

"We can talk about it in the morning," Sam offers. Cas nods.

"Thank you," he manages to say. He turns and continues into the bathroom, heaving a sigh of relief when the door finally shuts behind him. He locks it and tests the knob.

Once. Twice.

A third time for good measure. The lock holds firm. Cas closes the toilet lid and sets his duffle on top, then digs through to find what he needs.

His shower kit; high-end honey scented soap and lavender shampoo. A gift from Dean, each item costing almost three times as much as the cheap bodywash and shampoo Dean preferred.

A portable radio, a thrift store find Dean had restored and presented to Cas after reading that silence was the enemy of healing. Particularly in showers, where the limited distractions made it all too easy for the mind to wander down dark paths. Cas treasured it.

Cas turned the radio on and set it on a folded towel inside the dry sink. The sound was more static than music, but Cas didn't feel like fiddling with the dials until he got a clearly audible radio station. The white noise would do just as well.

He dug back into his bag for clean clothes. Clean underwear, clean jeans, a clean shirt that had once belonged to Dean. The image on the front was faded beyond recognition and there were small holes in the collar and the sleeves, but it was soft and warm and _Dean's_.

Cas holds the shirt to his chest and breathes in deeply. It doesn't smell like Dean, not anymore, but the smell of the laundry detergent is the same that Dean uses. It's enough.

It's been two weeks since their first kiss, late that night in the library. Since then there have been more kisses; chaste, sweet things Dean always asks his consent for, save the one or two times that Cas himself initiated. Dean trusts him to know his own limits, never doubtfully asks if Cas is sure, just smiles warmly and draws Cas close with hands that never wander.

By silent agreement, they haven't kissed in front of Sam. Neither of them are quite ready for this delicate new thing between them to be put to scrutiny.

Over the past two weeks, Cas has come to realize that he quite enjoys kissing. Up until now, his limited experiences with kissing had been... less than ideal.

Rather a lot less.

Kissing is different when it's not a surprise or a trick, when the person you're kissing doesn't just assume you're willing.

Cas much prefers Dean's way.

Cas lowers the shirt to lay on top of the duffle with the pants and boxers. He takes a deep breath and then quickly strips himself, trying not to think about the cool air on his skin.

He shivers anyway as he steps into the shower. He turns on the water, hissing as it comes out bracingly cold before the water slowly starts to heat. The water pressure isn't great, but that's to be expected. The motel is cheap and old.

Cas sticks his head under the water and lets it slowly soak his hair. He keeps his eyes closed against the downpour, head bowed slightly to protect his face, and he tries not to think.

He tries to focus on the white noise of the radio, the songs and voices almost audible but just beyond his reach.

He tries to focus on the cold tile beneath his feet, a counterpoint to the now-hot water beating on his scalp.

He tries not to notice the taste of bile on his tongue or the sensation like grease on his skin.

He doesn't succeed.

Cas breathes in, the air shuddering in his lungs. His next breath is sharper and shorter than the last and his shoulders tremble as he breathes out.

He wipes at his face angrily and moves further into the spray, letting the water cascade down his back.

He's shaking, he realizes. He's shaking and he's breathing heavy and the wetness on his face isn't just shower water. He hasn't broken down this badly in months, and even though he knows what caused it, he hates himself for the weakness.

He had been doing better. The nightmares, while still frequent, didn't come as often or as intensely as they once had. His showers had gotten shorter, less and less time needed to wash the memory away.

Why was it that whenever he seemed to be moving forward, something always came along to shove him backwards? Always, _always_  one step forward and three steps back.

It hurts. He's ashamed of his fear, ashamed of his body, ashamed of the weaknesses and helplessness burned into his brain.

And the guilt. Sometimes, he's ashamed that he doesn't feel more guilty about what happened to April, to the human woman the reaper wore, but his first response when he thinks of that night is always fear rather than guilt. He knows it was _his_  fault, knows that if he had been smarter or less naive and less trusting-

He stops. He breathes.

"It wasn't my fault," he says, voice so quiet he's completely inaudible over the water. "It wasn't my fault."

The words taste like a lie on his tongue. Cas has read that it's supposed to help, this positive self-talk, but the words still ring false in his ears.

Especially after today.

He'd seen the way she looked at him. He couldn't miss it, not with her ghost trying to choke the life out of him. Cas knows that anger, that pain and that fear.

However unclean he feels at the memory of her touch, she must feel the same when she thinks of his.

"It wasn't-" His voice breaks. He covers his face with his hands and tries to just breathe, tries to focus on the white noise of the radio and the heat soaking into his skin from the shower. It doesn't help.

He grabs for his bar of soap and the cheap, rough rag the motel provides. He lathers it up with quick, jerky motions and starts to scrub.

He scrubs. And scrubs. And scrubs.

Shoulders. Arms. Calves. Thighs.

Between his legs. His hips. His chest. His neck.

He can still feel it.

Again, then.

His inner thighs. Everything between them. His pectoral muscles.

The rag scratches. His nails bite through the thin cloth and leave raised red marks wherever he scrubs. He can see them like brands on his skin.

He can still feel it.

_Again_.

Everything from his navel downward.

Everything from his stomach upward.

He can still-

_Again_ -

A knock at the door pulls him out of himself. 

"Yes?" Cas calls, a little startled at how hoarse his voice is.

"It's Dean," Dean replies. "Sam and I are gonna go do a little research and grab some dinner. We'll be back right after; you want anything?"

Dean's trying to give him space, Cas realizes. He doesn't know how long he's been in the shower, but he's surprised to note how _cold_ the water is. 

Dean's been waiting. Cas shakes himself.

"A burger," he calls back. He doesn't need to elaborate. Dean knows how he likes them.

There's quiet for a moment, then Dean speaks again, voice gentle enough that Cas almost doesn't hear him over the shower and the white noise.

"Do you want one of us to stay?"

Cas thinks about it, fighting down his knee-jerk 'no, I'm fine'. It's a lie, and moreover, Dean knows it's a lie.

Cas isn't fine, but he can't talk about it right now either. He can't sit there with Sam's understanding and pity, his open compassion and earnest attempts to get him to open up and air out his hurts. He can't stand in the face of Dean's fierce protectiveness, the softness Cas knows to look for now even though he's never felt less worthy.

Maybe later, but not right now.

"I'll be fine," Cas says. He will be, just not right now.

From the other side of the door, Dean sighs.

"Just... don't do anything stupid, ok? We'll figure this out when we get back," Dean says.

There's indistinct noises on the other side of the door. A flurry of activity, the sound of footsteps, then the door to the motel room opens and shuts. Several minutes later, Cas can just make out the rumble of the Impala's distinctive engine as Dean and Sam leave.

Cas turns off the water.

It's cold anyway and he's shivering from the temperature more than emotion now. He still doesn't feel clean, but he can't stand naked under cold water all night. His skin is cool to the touch, pink and not new enough as he dries himself off. Thoughts are churning in his mind, emotions twisting his stomach into knots; anger, fear, shame, guilt.

When Dean and Sam get back, he'll have to talk. They'll have to decide what to do about April's ghost; Cas has no doubt that the research the Winchesters are going to do involves the location of her grave, if she was buried rather than cremated. He feels a momentary pang of gratefulness that he's not expected to help with the research, but that thought brings him back to the question he'd asked himself earlier.

Does he want to see her burn? Does he want to burn her?

Of everyone there that night, she was the most innocent. It was not April's fault that her face featured prominently in one of Cas's most horrifying memories; that blame belonged solely to the reaper that had possessed her. April hadn't been in control of her actions in a very literal sense.

Cas couldn't blame her for what had happened, even though the thing responsible had worn her body to do it.

He couldn't punish her for being the other victim.

He couldn't allow her to _be_  punished for being the other victim.

Cas stares at the white tile floor of the bathroom, a hard weight settling across his shoulders and his thoughts churning in his mind. Cold fear curdles his stomach, but he knows there's only one choice left him.

Dean and Sam wouldn't understand, not really. They'd try to talk him out of it, and Cas knows his plan is stupid and potentially dangerous, but he sees no other path.

April's ghost cannot remain haunting the apartment. Cas can't let her burn when it wasn't her fault, when she wasn't the one who had done this to him.

The only option is to bring her spirit peace and have her willingly let go of what was keeping her here.

Cas gets dressed in a daze, barely feeling the softness of the cotton and denim as he covers himself, yet acutely aware of each piece of clothing he pulls on. It feels like armor and every inch of skin he covers makes him that much safer, that much less vulnerable.

He exits the bathroom and goes right to Dean's duffle, layering up with one of Dean's plaid flannel shirts and his trenchcoat. It's a comfort, however slight.

The nightstand between the two beds in the room is covered with bullets ready to be turned into salt rounds and, more importantly, the salt itself. Cas grabs the bag of rock salt and slings it like a sack over his shoulder. He hesitates only a moment before grabbing Dean's gun as well. He's not a marksman by any stretch of the imagination, but Dean had been teaching him to shoot and even Cas can hit a target from a few feet away.

He hopes he won't need it.

He checks the clip. Almost full. He ejects it and puts it in the pocket of his coat, then flicks on the safety of the gun and tucks it inside his other pocket.

He takes one last look around the room. The dirty laundry is piled in one corner, the takeout wrappers stacked high in the trash can, and the blankets on both beds are still rucked up from last night's sleep.

Cas's gaze lingers on his the rollaway bed, his duffle in hand, and considers, just for a moment, disappearing once his task is done.

This hunt had dragged a lot of old hurts to the surface.

He thinks of Dean, eyes pained but resolute as he says "you can't stay". The words had been a devastating blow to a Cas that had still been reeling from the Fall, from the attacks by his siblings, from _April_. He understands now why Dean had said that, but at the time he'd had nothing, no explanation for the hurt, and sometimes he still finds himself thinking that perhaps he is not truly welcome to stay.

Then he thinks of Dean as he was two weeks ago, whispering "please don't go" sweetly against Cas's ear. He thinks of his bedroom in the bunker, the crisp cotton sheets and the wildlife photographs on the wall.

He thinks of the small rug Dean had insisted Cas pick out, the shelf of interestingly-titled books Cas had bought at a thrift shop, the small plant Sam had gotten him as a "room-warming" gift.

He drops his duffle by the rollaway bed and heads back into the bathroom. The light is still on, so he heads right for the shower and turns the water back on, as cold as it will go. No need to waste whatever hot water this motel's water heater can produce.

He exits the bathroom and closes the door behind himself. He can hear the shower spray through the door and see the light underneath; hopefully, this little deception will fool Sam and Dean and they'll respect his privacy enough not to try the door. There's no way for Cas to lock it from the outside.

It will hopefully buy him enough time to do what had to be done. Dean, Cas knows, would be against it, or at least against Cas going alone.

But if Cas has to talk with April... especially regarding _that_  night, he doesn't want an audience for it. He doesn't want the hyperawareness that would come with Dean and Sam listening in, doesn't want the pity or the anger.

Cas looks around one last time. If this goes poorly, if April doesn't want to listen and would rather just take her revenge on him for the unwitting part he played in making the night one of horror for her as well...

Cas isn't sure he can stop her. He isn't sure he deserves to stop her, if that's what she demands. 

"I'll be back," he promises the empty room anyway.

He turns to the door and, steeling himself with a deep breath, steps out into the spreading night.

* * *

  
Dean and Sam return to the motel room two hours later to find everything exactly as they left it. Dean sighs when he hears the shower still running and sets the bag containing Cas's dinner on the nightstand.

"He's still in there?" Sam asks quietly, shucking his coat. His expression is sympathetic and pained, like he should've been able to prevent the mess that today had been if he'd tried hard enough.

Dean shrugs a shoulder, trying not to let his worry show on his face.

"Maybe he got out and then got back in, I don't know," Dean says. He really hopes Cas hasn't been in the shower the entire time they were gone; it doesnt bode well for his mental state if that's the case.

Then again, Dean doesn't blame him one bit. Today was... difficult.

Dean walks over to the bathroom door and knocks.

"Cas?" he calls. He waits, but there's no response, just the sound of water hitting the tiles and faint static from the radio Dean had given Cas months ago. Dean sighs. "Sam and I are back. We brought food, just... come out whenever you're ready, ok?"

He waits longer, but if Cas replies, he doesn't hear it. Dean scrubs a hand over his face and walks away from the door.

At least the research had been easy. It hadn't taken them more than thirty minutes to find out which cemetary April had been buried in. Dean had driven by in the Impala just to see how difficult it would be to do a little salt and burn, and while the cemetary was small, there didn't seem to be any on-site groundskeeper and no houses anywhere near enough for nosy neighbors to spot them breaking in.

Dean has half a mind to go there tonight and take care of the ghost himself. He doesn't want to put Cas through seeing her again, but... this is supposed to be Cas's decision.

Cas has had enough choices taken away from him; Dean doesn't want to go behind his back on this.

"Guess we wait," Dean says, flopping onto his bed and reclining against the headboard. He grabs the remote and turns on the TV, half-heartedly flipping through channels to find something appropriately mindless.

"Can't be long now?" Sam offers, glancing at the bathroom door. Dean shrugs a shoulder but doesn't take his eyes off the TV, where on screen Jerry is investigating the door to a 'mouse hotel' Dean's fairly sure is actually the mouth of a disguised Tom.

"I don't know, Sam," Dean says. "I just don't know."

* * *

Getting back to the apartment building had been both easy and one of the most difficult things Cas has ever done. Cas's leaden feet know the route to take; he remembers these backstreets and these alleyways, each one filled with memories of cold and fear and hunger.

Loneliness too, though at the time he had convinced himself that it was for the best. He couldn't bear to bring the wrath of the fallen angels down on the Winchesters; surely he, a millennia-old being, could take care of himself.

He'd been soundly proven wrong, in the worst possible way, and then he'd been denied a safe haven with the last people he thought were still willing to call him kin.

Cas forces himself not to think about it. Dean had apologized, repeatedly, and though it didn't help the fear at the back of his mind go away it did mitigate it some.

Still, thinking about Dean's low voice saying "you have to go" was easier than thinking about what awaited him at the end of his walk. His mind was going in circles, latching on to all of the hurts and old wounds that surrounded that night because of everything Cas had gone through, those were far easier to think about.

He could take the pain and the hunger. He could take the loneliness and the feeling that he'd been abandoned. He'd done it all before. The Apocalypse-that-wasn't had been a crash course in learning about hunger; Famine alone had seen to that. Pain was nothing new to a soldier, especially one that had laid siege to Hell to rescue the Righteous Man. Abandonment was an old friend for a rebel angel, one that had turned his back to Heaven multiple times and been cut off as a result of doing what was right. Especially one who had searched for months for God and never seen him.

But what April had done-

The reaper. He means the reaper.

If he is to go through this at all, he can't conflate the two.

Cas stops walking and stares up at the building, somewhat stunned to have arrived already. The walk felt long and yet far too short; he didn't even know what to say, how to begin approaching April's ghost to pacify her.

But his ruse with the shower and closed bathroom door won't trick Dean and Sam forever.

There's nobody out on the street, but Cas does a surreptitious glance around to make sure regardless. He approaches the apartment building with confidence, like he has every right to be there and fumbles for his lockpicks.

His hands are shaking. He swallows heavily and sets down the bag of salt to try and pick the lock. Dean and Sam have been teaching him how, and the lessons pay off when the lock springs open less than a minute later.

He's in.

Cas takes a deep breath and picks up the bag of salt. He walks into the building for the second time that day and shuts and locks the door behind him.

He can turn back. He won't.

He probably should, but he won't.

He makes his way to the stairwell and climbs the flights of stairs to the third floor. The halls are eeriely quiet, only the pounding of his heart and his own harsh breathing audible to his ears. 

Cas presses forward as if in a dream. A nightmare.

The door at the end of the hall is dark and foreboding, but the handle turns easily in his grasp. The landlady had probably been too frightened by what she'd seen in the apartment to come back to lock up after they'd run.

On the threshhold, Cas hesitates.

He takes a deep breath.

Then, slowly, he pushes the door open.

* * *

Dean stares determinedly at the TV screen, though if asked he can't honestly say he has any idea what's going on. Or what show they're watching now that the Tom & Jerry marathon is over.

His whole focus is on the closed bathroom door and the sound of the shower _still_  going behind it. His arms are crossed over his chest, fingers drumming a bruise into the meat of his bicep.

Cas neds time. Dean knows that. Today was a nasty shock for him and Dean's sympathetic, he is, but he also won't calm down until he's seen for himself that Cas has calmed down. He needs to see Cas relaxed and recovering, but he can't just burst into the bathroom and drag Cas out to keep an eye on him. He needs to give Cas his space to breathe and needs to give him time. He understands that. He does.

It doesn't mean it doesn't worry the fuck out of him that Cas has been in the shower for hours and hasn't come out.

Cas's dinner has long since gone cold and Dean would be annoyed about the waste if he wasn't trying so hard to keep a lid on his fear about what's going on beyond the bathroom door.

"Dean?"

Dean grunts but doesn't look at Sam. Sam clears his throat.

"He's been in there a long time," Sam says carefully, like there's something he wants to say but isn't sure he should.

Dean doesn't reply. Sam waits for a moment, then continues.

"Like... a really long time. Even for him," Sam says. Dean sighs.

"Your point?" he asks. Sam hesitates.

"Should we, maybe... check on him?"

"He'll come out when he's ready," Dean says, though the words ring hollow to his own ears. Sam isn't convinced either, going by the glance he shoots the bathroom door.

"Just..." Sam says. "What if he slipped and hit his head? Or-"

Sam cuts himself off. Dean looks at him sharply.

"'Or'?" he parrots back. Sam doesn't look at him.

"Or something," Sam says. The word 'something' is heavy and dark with meaning that Dean knows he can parse if he really thinks about it.

He doesn't want to. That isn't a reality he can face.

"Something," he says instead, because it's easier to pretend the thought isn't creeping up on him too, to hope that Sam means anything besides what Dean _thinks_  he means.

"He was... really upset, Dean," Sam says. He swallows. "Maybe... we shouldn't have left him alone?"

Dean wants to tell Sam that he's being ridiculous. Paranoid, even. Got hit one too many times in the skull by a spook.

He can't. He feels cold all over, like a hand made of ice is gripping his heart, because that's the _one thing_  he's been trying hard not to think.

"He wouldn't," Dean says, but his voice wobbles. All too clearly, he can remember a night years ago, in a motel room just like this, where Cas has told him 'if I see what Heaven's become... I'm afraid I might kill myself'.

Was it really too much of a stretch to believe that today might've been the breaking point? Seeing April again, having her blame him for something Cas already carried so much guilt over, something that scarred Cas so heavily the wounds still bleed...

It's not a stretch at all.

Dean is on his feet and moving almost before he knows what's happening.

"Dean-" Sam says, but it's drowned out by the sound of Dean knocking on the bathroom door. He's not quite pounding on the door, but it's a near thing.

"Cas?" Dean calls, hoping to be heard over the rushing water.

No response. Dean swallows his panic and knocks again, louder.

"Cas, come on. Say something," Dean says. He waits, hardly daring to breathe-

Still nothing.

"Dean-" Sam starts, reaching a hand out to Dean's shoulder. Dean slams his fist against the door.

"Cas!" he shouts.

He listens, hoping against hope, against all evidence to the contrary, but he gets no response. All he hears is the sound of the water and the harshness of his own breathing.

Desperate now, he goes for the door handle. He doesn't expect it to turn in his hands, but when it does, he feels ice shooting through his veins. He goes still in shock, staring at the doorknob that should not have opened so easily.

Beside him, Sam draws in a sharp breath. He doesn't speak.

Cas has never, not once, failed to lock the door when he was showering. He never failed to check it multiple times, either.

Dean doesn't want to think about what it means that the door was left unlocked.

Dean swallows thickly. He takes a deep breath, preparing himself for whatever he's going to see beyond the door.

Slowly, he pushes the door open. He steps inside the bathroom, heart pounding.

"Cas?" he says hoarsely.

The knee-weakening _relief_  he feels when he looks into the bathroom nearly knocks him off his feet. The things he was most afraid of aren't there; looking around, he sees no blood, no signs of any kind of struggle or fall, no limp bodies curled in a corner. The shower curtain is open, water spraying the clean white tiles, leaving no place for a nasty surprise to hide.

And then he realizes what else he doesn't see and abruptly his worry increases tenfold, buoyed by a wave of anger.

"Son of a bitch," Dean says. Sam is half a step behind him, looking around the tiny bathroom in shock.

"Where's Cas?" Sam asks. He sounds almost as worried as Dean feels.

"I don't know," Dean says tightly, staring at the empty shower stall like it's personally responsible for Cas's vanishing act. He steps forward and yanks the handle to turn off the water, not even caring as icy water soaks his sleeve. "But he's probably doing something really fucking stupid."

Something dangerous. Something he knows Dean and Sam won't approve of.

Something he doesn't want them to stop him from doing before it's too late.

"You don't think... he didn't go back to the apartment, did he?" Sam asks. Dean doesn't know.

But he really, really hopes not.

"Let's go," Dean growled, stalking out of the bathroom and grabbing his car keys on his way to the door. Sam was right there with him, grabbing their jackets as they headed out in search of their wayward angel.

* * *

  
Cas steps into the dark apartment and shuts the door quietly behind himself. Faint shafts of light from the streetlights outside stream in around the board covering the broken window, throwing most of the room into deep shadow.

Cas breathes. He counts his heartbeats.

One-two, one-two, one-two...

The apartment seems eeriely silent, or maybe it's just that Cas can't hear anything over the sound of his own harsh breathing.

He takes the angel blade he always carries with him and stabs a hole into the bottom corner of the bag of salt. He steps a little further into the room and turns slowly, arm held out wide to spill the salt in a large circle. The salt pours from the bag with a quiet sussurus of sound, like a snake slithering through a hedge.

Once the circle is complete, he clenches the bag in his hand. It has a scratchy, almost burlap like texture. It's grounding.

He lets it drop. The bag makes only a slight thump when it hits the floor, deflated and small.

Cas runs a hand over his face. He's sweating, though he doesn't feel warm. He can taste the salt residue on his hand.

He breathes in. He counts his heartbeats.

Onetwo, onetwo, onetwo, onetwo.

He can do this.

He must.

"April?" he calls out. He looks around the apartment, eyes skating over the couch, the entrance to the kitchen, the darkened bedroom door-

He breathes. He counts.

Onetwoonetwoonetwoone-

There's a chill in the air, a slowly-spreading cold that Cas feels deep in his lungs. He exhales and sees the ice crystals form in the air in front of him and he _knows_.

In front of him, just beyond the line of salt that suddenly seems like very meager protection-

_'-I had my angel blade-'_

\- April stands, arms crossed defensively in front of her chest. Her eyes are pure venom as she stares at him. Cas returns her stare levelly, trying hard not to flinch from the accusation in her gaze or buckle beneath the weight of his own guilt and panic.

"I came to talk," Cas says. If there's a slight shake to his voice, he supposes bitterly that at least no one here will judge him for it.

April lifts her chin.

" _You_. Want to talk. To _me_ ," she says, voice growing more incredulous and angry with every word. She shakes her head sharply and her arms clench tighter around her chest. "I don't want to hear _anything_  from you."

The framed photos rattle on the wall, shaken by an invisible force. The darkened lights overhead flicker on and off rapidly, the sound of static loud in the air.

Cas swallows around the lump in his throat. He curls one hand into a fist, digging his nails into his palm and trying not to panic. For a moment, the rattling picture frames sounded almost like thunder, the flickering lights resembling candlelight for a split second-

He holds his ground. 

Things he can feel. The bite of nails in his palm, the dry scratch of his coat collar against the back of his neck. The weight and warmth of his sweater and jeans, the pinch of his toes in almost-new shoes.

Things he can see. Three framed photos on the wall of the apartment's current occupants; one of a young couple smiling in front of a castle with black, cheap looking hats adorned with two large dark circles on top. A group shot of the young couple and another of similar age at some kind of restaurant. A photo in front of a gazebo, the woman in a white dress and the man in a suit. 

Things he can hear. The sound of a car rolling by outside, the faint hum of central heating. His own breathing, steady, in-out. In. Out.

In.

Out.

He can do this.

"I didn't mean to hurt you," he says. April _explodes_. With a strangled shout, she practically throws herself up against the invisible barrier created by the salt line, slamming her hands against it like she has any hope of cracking it.

"You _didn't mean_  to hurt me?!" she demands, eyes shining with fury and tears. "You _raped_  me. Your friends killed me, and now I'm-" Her voice cuts out.

Cas flinches, hunching over on himself like she had just physically struck him.

"I'm sorry," he chokes out. It's not enough, he knows it's not, mere words could never fix any of it.

"Do you expect my forgiveness?" April sneers. Cas shakes his head, not looking at her.

"I don't," he says, staring at the floor. His eyes burn. "I don't expect your forgiveness, because I know some things... some things are not forgiveable."

He understands. He can neither forgive, nor forget, only try to move forward despite inevitable backslides. He still has his life, at least, and Sam and Dean besides.

April doesn't even have those advantages. Just anger.

"Then why are you here?" April asks.

"To talk," Cas says again. Then, quieter. "To apologize, because even if it isn't enough and even if you don't believe me, I am truly sorry for what I did."

It's not his fault, or at least Dean has told him many a time that it wasn't. Castiel isn't entirely sure whether or not to believe him, but he's starting to. Still, April doesn't need explanations and to hear him dodging blame. Unwitting or not, unwilling or not, he knows his is the face she associates with that night.

Just like he associates her face with that night.

Whether or not it was actually his fault... he doesn't think he'll ever stop carrying the guilt.

April shakes her head incredulously.

"You expect me to believe that out of everything you've done, _this_  is what you feel guilty for?" she asks scornfully. Cas draws back.

"What do you mean?" he asks. April glares.

"The reaper told me _everything_ ," she says. "All about Castiel, the rebel angel. The 'new God', the hundreds of angels _you_ killed. You're the reason there's so few angels left, and then you took Heaven from them too. Am I really supposed to believe that you feel guilt over what happened to me when you're basically the second coming of _Lucifer!_?"

It's an unexpected blow. Cas feels it like a stab to the chest.

He hadn't expected such a full accounting of his sins tonight. He feels the weight of his crimes like a physical thing on his chest, making it hard to breathe.

He isn't sure what kind of expression he's making, but whatever she sees on his face gives April pause. Her expression melts to one of shock.

"I remember all of their names," Cas says softly. "The blood of my siblings is on my hands and I have no one to blame but myself."

It was his own bad decisions that had led him to Purgatory, after all. To making a deal with Crowley, to try and shoulder the burden of stopping Raphael's attempt at re-starting the Apocalypse on his own instead of asking for help.

The road to Hell was, after all, paved with the best intentions.

"Raphael had to be stopped, but I didn't need to exact vengeance on his followers. None of them could have opened the Cage. None of them were powerful enough to put the Apocalypse back on track, not without an archangel. But I... I thought I could improve things. Make the world better."

He can't look at April. He isn't sure whether or not he's even talking to her anymore, or if he's just venting all the darkness that had been bottling up inside of him for years. There had never been time to talk about all this with Sam and Dean, and when eventually he'd had time, he'd been too afraid to upset the status quo. He had been wary of dredging up old wounds and old hurts and risking what goodwill he'd managed to keep.

"I was arrogant and foolish," Cas says. "And the ones I cared about most paid the price."

Dean. Sam. Balthazar.

"And when I tried to atone for my mistakes... I was desperate, and easily led," Cas says. "I meant to shut Heaven with all the angels inside and protect Earth from any further meddling. Instead, my Grace was stolen from me and used to cast every angel out of Heaven and burn their wings to ash."

He can feel tears burning their way down his cheeks, dripping off his chin. Hot shame courses through him, not for the tears themselves but for his audacity in crying in front of April. He wipes at his eyes and tries to steady himself.

April just stares at him in stunned silence. Cas can't find words, any words, to try and explain himself further. He's loath to dredge up details she might see as excuses, sick at the idea of halving his burdens by placing any more weight on her shoulders.

"You expect me to believe that?" April asks, though her eyes betray sudden uncertainty. Cas shakes his head, weary to the bone.

"It's the truth whether or not you believe it," he says. "Many... most of my siblings despise me for the things I've done, and I can't say I don't understand. The reaper-" His voice breaks but he rallies quickly, eyes sliding to the floor so he doesn't have to face April as he speaks. "The one who possessed you probably wanted revenge."

"If they wanted revenge, why- why _that_?" April sounds lost, small.

"Because they knew it would hurt," Cas says dully. April goes quiet.

"You stopped the Apocalypse?" she asks, like she's not quite sure she believes him.

"I helped," Cas says softly. "I couldn't have done it alone."

He thinks back to his deal with Crowley, those long months spent sneaking and hiding his deeds from the Winchesters, and huffs a small, bitter laugh.

"I proved that well enough when Raphael tried to re-start it. The power I sought to end the war and keep humanity safe corrupted me." He can feel a lump in his throat. "I did... many terrible things."

April is quiet again, absorbing the information. Castiel lets her, feeling a bit like a wrung out dishrag.

"And when the angels fell, that was... what? A mistake? A misunderstanding?" she asks. She sounds a bit dazed, like her world had just gotten turned inside out. Cas nods.

"The Scribe of God told me it was a spell to lock Heaven permanently, with all the angels inside. Earth would be free from any further angelic meddling. The Apocalypse wouldn't be possible and humanity could live in peace, free will intact." Cas stares intently at the woodgrain of the floor, hoping it had answers. "Instead, it was a spell to lock us all _out_  of Heaven, unable to return. He cut my throat and used my Grace to cast it, and sent me down to Earth in time to see all of Heaven fall. Because of me."

That night is burned into his memory. He'll never forget the sight of thousands of his brothers and sisters falling, their Grace lighting up the sky like meteorites streaking through the atmosphere. Almost beautiful but so terrifying and tragic Cas's heart ached at the memory. He drags his gaze up to look her in the eye.

April doesn't say anything for a long time. She stares at him, weighing the truth of his words versus what the reaper had told her so long ago.

At long last she speaks.

"I believe you," she says, as if she's stunned that she means it. "I just- that night-"

She inhales shakily and visibly musters her courage. 

"If you could do that night over, knowing that I was there, that I-" She shakes her head, ghostly tears pouring down her cheeks. "Would you make a different choice?"

Cas's expression crumples. Her words are an echo of the question he's asked himself hundreds of times since the last time he'd stood in this apartment, the path his mind had wandered down every time he woke from a nightmare sweaty and shaking.

_If only, if only-_

"Yes," he says fervently. He wants to be ashamed that his answer isn't solely or even mostly for April and her suffering, but for his own. He wants to be ashamed, but he isn't, and a voice that sounds very much like Dean's reverberates in his mind.

It wasn't his fault. He didn't bring it upon himself, or on April. He had every right to mourn the loss of his sense of safety, to be angry at the violation.

Even so, there is nothing he wouldn't give to set his past self on a different path than the one he'd taken.

"I would've sought shelter earlier. Gotten food out of a different Dumpster," he feels compelled to explain. It's driven him half-mad, thinking of the myriad small ways he could have done things differently and possibly ended up somewhere completely different that night.

Part of him bitterly supposes that his actions didn't really matter, not if the reaper was hunting him. It was possible they would've possessed any willing vessel Cas happened to be near, but it's hard not to wonder if, in some other timeline, another version of himself had been smarter or luckier and had made it through his stint of homelessness with no lasting scars.

"I wouldn't have followed her home," Cas says, almost talking to himself. "I would have taken my chances with the storm. I would've hidden somewhere none of my siblings could find me. I would've slept on the couch. I would have-"

He's rambling. He knows he is, but he can't seem to stop himself. His arms are wrapped around himself, hugging across his chest like he can keep the pain at bay with the pressure alone. All he can see is all the paths he didn't take, the twists and tricks of fate that lead him back _here_ , over and over again in his nightmares.

"I should've said 'no', I should've resisted, I-" He looks up at April and his voice dies in his throat. Her eyes are wide in shock, mouth agape.

Cas waits, so tense he's shaking. There's understanding in April's eyes.

"You..." she says. There's no venom in it. She shakes her head. "I wasn't... aware the whole time, I just- it was mostly flashes, but I knew, I could feel-" Her voice breaks off and she shakes her head again. "I've had a lot of time to think this past year. Think and stew and remember... I hated you so, so much."

"I'm sorry," Cas whispers again. April steadies herself with a deep breath.

"This is what I was missing. This is what didn't make sense to me, but I ignored it because it was so much easier to despise you," she says. She looks at him with watery eyes. "I... I don't think I can forgive you. Not after-" She exhales. "But I don't think I can blame you, either."

Cas feels his own eyes burning with unshed tears. He nods once in a quick, jerky motion.

"I understand," he says simply. He is of a similar mind about April herself, after all. Even if he doesn't blame her for the way her body was used against him, it doesn't change the fact that it's still her he sees when he closes his eyes and her touch that haunts his worst memories. He's still scared of her, even though he knows the reaper is long gone to Purgatory.

"Thank you, Castiel," April says quietly. Her body begins to glow white, motes of bright light beginning to emanate from her ghostly form. "Goodbye."

"Goodbye, April," Cas says. She gives him a thin, wry smile and then closes her eyes as the light around her intensifies.

There's a flash as bright as a hundred bolts of lightning and then she's gone.

The dust has barely begun to settle when Cas hears rapid footsteps approaching the door. He turns just in time to see the door to the apartment burst open, Sam and Dean running inside in an echo of that morning a year ago when they'd found Cas tied to a chair with the reaper standing over him, wielding his own blade.

This time, it's only Cas, a ring of salt, and the fading remnants of light left behind by a spirit put to rest.

"Cas," Sam exhales in relief. Dean doesn't bother with words, just marches over the salt line and pulls Cas into a bone-crushing hug. After a moment of shocked stillness, Cas relaxes into it and hesitantly brings his arms up to wrap around Dean.

"You stupid son of a bitch," Dean says, voice thick. There's no venom in the words, only fear. "You can't go off by yourself like that."

"I'm sorry I worried you, but this I had to take care of on my own," Cas replies softly. He's still clutched to Dean's chest and the pressure is grounding. Calming.

He feels lighter than he has in months. There's a calm inside him he didn't realize he was missing until now, something that almost feels like atonement.

"Is it over?" Sam asks.

"April's spirit is at peace," Cas says, finally pulling back from Dean's embrace. Dean doesn't let him go far, though, holding onto his wrists like he's afraid Cas will vanish out the window if he lets go. Cas looks up to meet Dean's eyes and finds Dean staring at him pensively.

"And you?" Dean asks lowly, words not meant for Sam's ears. "Are you at peace?"

Cas thinks for a moment. He looks around the apartment one last time.

It's still strange, standing here. He still feels uncomfortable and the sight of the open bedroom doorway still gives him chills. He suspects some things always will.

But Dean is a warm, solid presence next to him. Sam and Dean had come charging in and found that this time, Cas had saved himself.

"I will be," Cas says, and lets Dean lead him by the hand out of the apartment.

 

**Author's Note:**

> This is mostly complete at this point. It's a good note to end on, I think. 
> 
> I do plan to continue with what I might call a companion piece, though it takes place after this series and will be more destiel-heavy. For the interested parties, be on the lookout for 'Reclamation' (working title).
> 
> (You may be able to guess what it'll be about from the title. It'll be a series of connected oneshots rather than a multichapter fic.)
> 
> Thank you for reading and taking this journey with me. This was a difficult fic to write, but it helped.


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